Chapter Twenty-Seven: In Which A Duke Visits Court
Plummetting from high heavens like a comet falling to Earth, the goshawk impacted the fluttering pheasant among a flurry of feathers. Rent and broken, the pheasant’s plump form tumbled from the azure sky, in a sharp arc closely followed by the bird of prey.
“A truly magnificent animal”, Bohemond said, tearing is attention away from the goshawk and turning in the saddle towards Serlo. “A gift from a nomad sheik, you say?”
“Not quite a gift”, Serlo replied. “Rather the tribute due to me and you, my lord King.”
Bohemond nodded in appreciation. “So it seems you have finally broken the bedouins’ recalcitrance, cousin.”
“At least for now, yes. My foray into the deep desert has taught them that the safety of the sand is a deceptive one and that I can and
will come to get them even out there. Though I don’t much care for having to do it again”, Serlo added, almost as an afterthought. He loved the harshness and unforgivingness of the desert, but campaigning in its depth had been harrowing.
“None but you could have done it”, the King said in a rare instance of praise. “I knew why I sent you.”
Slightly embarrassed by his cousin’s praise, as pleasing as it may have been to his ears, Serlo cleared his throat and jerked his head over to the clumps of summer-dry grass among which the goshawk perched on his prey. “Well, the sheiks along the edge of the desert do now pay their tribute once more, and when I saw this hawk, I just knew it was a beast fit for a king. Nobody trains these birds like the nomads.”
Bohemond snorted. “Gausbert will be pleased, no doubt.”
It was but three months that Bohemond had made his second son Duke of Cyrenaica and endowed him with lands almost matching Serlo’s own. Gausbert’s almost unwholesome passion for falconry was well known and being made lord of a land of such high reknown for this very art must have pleased him more than anything else about his elevation, Serlo judged. The Duke was something at a loss concerning his new neighbour. Concerning everything but falconry, the Prince was languid and listless, but sometimes he could break out into short bursts of activity, and when he did so, Serlo thought that he could glimpse a sharp intellect, maybe even a hint of greatness. Gausbert was a puzzling creature.
The handlers were retrieving the hawk and making to return him to his perch on Bohemond’s beefy fist. Waiting, the King turned once more to matters of state. With his cousin, it was always matters of state, Serlo thought.
“So”, the King asked, “everything in order in Kairwan? Still no new outbreaks?”
“Four months now, and only a few scattered cases, far from what it was before. The plague is finally and truly contained, it seems, praise be the Lord.”
But in reality it had very little to do with the Lord, Serlo knew. When nothing would avail her, Princess Yolanda had sent to some legendary place in far-off Persia, famed for its doctors, and offered a princely reward to any man who would heal her. A Muhammadan had indeed answered the call, travelling the breadth of the world to heal the Norman Princess, and after he had been successful, Bohemond had sent the man on to Serlo, and the measures suggested by the Persian had finally stemmed the ravages of dysentery. One of the very last victims and indeed the only one of true substance had been Lord Oberto, Yolanda’s unfortunate husband, who must have caught the plague from his wife.
“I trust everything is well with your son?”, Bohemond asked while accepting the goshawk back onto his fist.
“Yes, my lord King, thank you. He is a clever lad and makes me very proud”, Serlo replied. He could not guess to what degree his cousin’s inquiry was genuine concern and to what part care for the realm. The infant Richard was all that stood between a unification of the duchies of Leptis Magna and Calabria under young Massimo, and with all the bad blood between the royal house and the descendants of Humphrey de Hauteville, Bohemond was no keener on Massimo succeeding Serlo than Serlo was himself. One year and a half had passed quietly since the attempt on Prince Herman’s life and the one on Massimo’s, and Count Henry was conducting the regency of Calabria in peaceful efficiency, but it would be foolish to believe the feud between the two main branches of the Hautevilles settled for good.
His son was Serlo’s greatest joy these days. He was but five, but he did already sit his pony as if born to it, and he was an undaunted little lad, afraid of nothing and almost to wild, to the constant worry of his mother. Richard had lived through the dangerous illnesses of infancy and the the worst threats were past now, but Serlo had still daily masses said for the health of his one child – he did not delude himself into thinking that there would ever be another In that respect, he was very different from his cousin who seemed to beget children like a rabbit, no matter on what woman. At least one known bastard, four children from Sancha, three from Sophia, and already two from Retha – and the woman was pregnant yet again! The Normans loved their King for his virility, but Serlo thought it almost uncanny
“I’m glad to hear it”, Bohemond said, with a powerful flick of his arm sending his bird once again up into the Sicilian sky and following it with his gaze as it climbed higher and higher until almost lost to the sight. “Your own house is in order, the disease has retreated, and Africa is pacified. Very good. Bu tell me – what about the two popes, Silvester and Clement? Who is acknowledged by the majority of African bishops, and are there any regional tendencies in the support for either?”
This bad business with the two holy fathers, one in Rome and one in Florence, dismayed Christendom, but Bohemond had let on to his cousin that he was actually very pleased at this development. Bohemond wished nothing more than a weak and paralyzed papacy, and a divided one fitted his bill perfectly. The King had never been a pious man, but Serlo found that his cousin’s secularity and cynicism had deepened with the years, whereas his own faith had slowly but steadily grown ever more secure. The deep rift dividing the church and filling Bohemond with glee was disturbing to the Duke.
While the cousins de Hauteville continued their falconry, for an afternoon sheltered from the court at Palermo, Serlo gave a detailed account of the allances of the various African bishops and also of the few monasteries that Bohemond had founded. While Leptis Magna and parts east were largely divided in their support for either Silvester or Clement, the west was mostly firmly in the camp of Clement, something that was to be attributed to Bishop Jordan of Gabes, a forceful man and powerful orator for the cause of the Florentine Pope. But Bohemond had of course no interest in seeing any pretender for the Holy See gain ascendence over the other, and so he resolved to strike a blow against Bishop Jordan by severly curtailing his legal privileges.
* * *
In the summer of 1106, Serlo de Hauteville had come to court, to Sicily, as it was his wont to do every other year. A subliminal sadness and quiet melancholy hung over the entire journey. As the Duke was acutely aware that it was quite likely that this was the very last time that he set his eyes on the continent that had given birth to him. Even the sea voyage to Siracusa, which did normally in spite of its brevity never fail to stir Serlo’s Viking blood, had this time been frought with sad memories, remembrances of how much Hoel used to hate going to sea and how it did without a fail make him sick each and every time. This time, though, Hoel hadn’t accompanied his master and friend – he had preceded him, embarking on his very last voyage this past spring. He had left a void that was not to be filled.
The weeks came and went endlessly, like the visitors to court. An endless stream of Normans and Franks and Lombards and Greeks and Arabs swept through the halls of the royal residence at Siracusa, and Serlo found that with every new visit more and more of the faces were alien to him. He and Renaud up in the Marches were the only ones still alive from King Robert’s day, but since his part in the Treason of Monreale, Renaud did nowadays stay away from court. A new generation had risen to prominence, like the Macons, who nowadays seemed to be everywhere. The old were passing one, and the young were stepping into their place. All was as it should be.
Then, one August day, when Serlo was already making plans to return to Africa, Prince Herman came to Siracusa. His stay was a short one, alsting only two days, but it was a momentous one for the kingdom.
* * *
“I have never seen the Prince so angry”, Serlo told his officers. He and Henry d’Acerenza, William di Capua and Roger, whom the Muhammadans called ar-Rahman, the Merciful, were sitting in the gardens of his residence at Tripoli, and Serlo was relating the newest developments at court. He had returned only yesterday and had immediately set aside some time for his son and also his wife, but now it was time to direct his attention once again upon politics and to hear his advisors on the recent events.
“He had conferred with his father in private”, Serlo went on with his account, “but you know how court is, nothing stays really secret, and so everybody knew that the Prince had some important matter of concern to take before the King. And when he emerged from the council chamber all tight and sullen, you just knew that his talk had went badly, very badly.”
Prince Herman de Hauteville after his talk with his father
Serlo paused to take a sip of wine before continuing. “The Chancellor, you know, she’s mother to Herman’s main vassal Malta, she tried to approach him, but he did push her to the ground and barked at her to leave him alone. His back as stiff as any I’ve seen, he stalked away. By the next morning, he was gone, leaving court after but two days.”
“Now that’s outlandish behaviour”, exclaimed Roger, Serlo’s steward. Roger was a Norman of already the third generation in the south, born in Messina and raised among Muslims, and he had acquired many of their more refined mannerisms, among them an intolerance for poor manners of any kind.
More to the point and less outraged, Marshal Henry d’Acrenza asked: “But is it known what maddened the Prince?”
“I left only three days later, but there were well-informed rumors”, Serlo replied. “Seems the Prince was vexed that his father had given Gausbert such extensive lands, and he felt slighted. You know, Herman’s the type who will fell slighted by anything. He approached his father and asked to be given additional lands to once again clearly outrank his brother in the eyes of the world.”
The demesnes of Bohemond’s sons as of summer 1106.
“And that went badly?”, William di Capua asked.
“Seems so”, Serlo said. “And I can readily imagine it. The Prince has an abrasive manner, and acknowledging another isn’t easy on him, not even his father. Harsh words have been spoken, I reckon. I saw the King less than half an hour later, and he didn’t say a word about what had happened, but it was cleasr enough that he was tense and annoyed.”
“So what now?”, asked Roger ar-Rahman. “Will it be war again?”
Henry d’Acerenza shook his head. “Now that’s unlikely. Herman has been soundly beaten and humiliated by the King, and after he tried to have young Massimo poisoned he can’t expect any support from Calabria. He’d be mad to take up arms once again.”
“True enough”, said William, “but the Prince is just foolish enough to take such extreme measure when he feels slighted. We should keep a watchful eye on him.”
“Do it”, Serlo ordered William, who was just the man who always seemed knew what palms to grease or whom to threaten to get the information he wanted. “Try to find out what the Prince is planning, and keep me informed on his every move. Especially now, with Mukhtar being Caliph of the Fatimids, I don’t want to see strife tearing the realm asunder.”
* * *
Weeks passed and turned into months, but no alarming news were forthcoming from Europe. Herman was brooding in his fortress of Trapani, from time to time venting his anger against father and brother in tirades, but too cowed to try anything foolish. What could easily have become another conflagration eating the realm was in the process of dying down, smothered by the fear Herman had of his father.
Serlo was glad of it, and he was glad of the news of Pope Honorius’ death arriving from Italy. A few bishops had wanted to elect another pontiff, but the level-headed majority had won the argument and convinced their fellows to desist and to acknowledge Clement III as undoubted Pope. After almost two years of rift, Christendom was at last once again united under a single Pope residing in Rome, and peace restored.
And yet mor news arrived from Europe, edicts from Bohemond relayed by noble messenger. One early November day the King’s messenger arrived in Tripoli, and the document he and others like him bore to all corners of the realm shook the kingdom to its very foundations. Against established law and ages old custom, a royal decree declared Prince Herman’s rights to the crown forfeit and named Gausbert heir and successor.
